


A Stolen Moment

by GingerBreton



Series: The Templar and The Thief [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dragon Age AU, F/M, Fluff, Romance, Templar Alistair, Templars (Dragon Age), Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 19:30:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17290031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerBreton/pseuds/GingerBreton
Summary: One shot written for tumblr kiss prompt - A Hoarse Whisper “Kiss me”.AU where neither Alistair nor Ysabelle were recruited for the Wardens.  Alistair completed Templar training and was assigned to the Denerim Chantry.  Ysabelle continued her life in the back streets of Denerim.





	A Stolen Moment

That spring had been unnaturally hot. As if being clad head to toe in full armour wasn’t bad enough, it was as though the sun reflecting off the buildings in central Denerim was magnifying the heat. Alistair was sweating profusely under his helmet. He could barely breath through its slots, let alone see. The mind boggled as to how anyone expected them to fight in such things. 

He was stationed outside the Chantry’s main entrance, full sun beating down on him. He should never have laughed at Sister Theohild’s incorrect recitations of the Chant, but in his defence, it had been hilarious. Any sensible person would have expected him to given up laughing at such things years ago, given the number of beatings he’d had during his training at the monastery for similar misdemeanours. _Who would want to live in a world where bacon cropping up in the Chant of Light wasn’t hysterical, not me_ , he shrugged. And he stood by that decision, albeit more silently than now than his initial snort might have suggested. 

So, his punishment had been to slowly roast alive in nobody’s company but his own, save the occasion lost visitor to Denerim asking for directions. His feet fidgeted under the ceremonial overskirts of the Templar armour (apparently referring to it as a sarong was another way to end up on punishment duties), but minimally so that all but the most astute of observers wouldn’t note his boredom. 

That had been the day that he’d first met the girl with red hair. Sister Theohild’s voice had drifted across the Chantry’s courtyard from her position at the edge of the market. She was telling an anecdote about old Brother Caedmon, Maker rest him, one that on a previous occasion earnt Alistair a night scrubbing the kitchen floors. He’d learnt to tune her out in the hope of avoiding further punishment. 

The noise that caught his attention was the padding of hurried footfalls. A flash of deep copper caught his eye as a figure quickly rounded the courtyard’s exterior wall and disappeared past the well into the bushes of the Chantry’s private gardens. He knew he should remain at his post, but surely it was his duty to investigate if there was any unusual activity in the grounds, more unusual that Sister Theohild’s sermons that was. 

He moved as quietly as he could, for what good it did in full armour. He’d heard merchant caravans that made less noise than he did in this getup, and that’s when he didn’t trip over the damn skirts. Through the bushes he could hear laughter. Carefree, lyrical, the kind that lifted the spirits to hear. 

Pushing through the last row of shrubs into a miniature clearing against the boundary wall, he found the source musical laughter. Crouched on the floor with her back against the wall was a young woman, it seemed she had slid down the wall unable to support herself as her body became wracked with giggles. Her hands covered her face in a poor attempt to stifle the noise of her amusement, her shoulder shaking the whole time. 

“…he drowned in the fucking wine… and here I was thinking the Chantry lot didn’t know how to have a good time!” Her voice had the lilt he learnt to associate with the coastal towns of northern Ferelden, definitely not a local accent. 

His view wasn’t good through the blasted visor of his helm, but he could make out a curtain of deep copper hair cascading over her shoulders, standing out rich against the green of her linen dress. 

“Ahem.” The noise didn’t draw her attention. “…miss…you shouldn’t really be back here.”

Bottle-green eyes snapped up to look at him, well not him he supposed, but the metal shell that defined and encased him. The emblazoned armour that sympathisers viewed in a light of protection and authority, while others felt nothing but fear and resentment. He’d never felt entirely at home assuming either mantle. Which would she see, he wondered. 

Neither, it would seem. She stood, the smile that quirked her lips was playful, neither fearful nor benign. Something in her eyes called to mind a cat toying with a mouse. The smile broke into a wicked grin. A quick flash of tongue running its way along her teeth was enough to make Alistair swallow hard, glad for once of the cover his armour provided. 

“How _do_ you lads see out of those helmets?” She tipped her head from side to side, attempting to get a decent vantage point as she circled him. 

Alistair found himself spinning on the spot, trying to keep up with her investigations, growing more flustered as he did so.

“Honestly, miss, you really do need to make your way back to the courtyard…” His pleas fell on deaf ears as she briefly rested back on the boundary wall, arms folded as she looked him over. 

“Are you not cookin’ in all of that?” Pushing herself off the wall again, she approached him, wrapping neatly on the helm, “I mean it canna be pleasant in there!” 

His head rung with the reverberations of the knock, it was the final straw in Alistair losing his day long battle with the armour. He dragged off his helmet, the midday sun was blinding but the breeze on his face was blissful. When his eyes adjusted, he finally got a proper look at his tormentor. She stood transfixed, flaming hair buffeted by the breeze, standing out bold against creamy white skin. Bottle-green eyes gazing up at him, bottom lip slowly slipping free from the bite that had trapped it. Never for a moment did he consider that it might be his features that transfixed her, rather he assumed that she stared at his flushed, sweaty face, or how his usually perfect hair was plastered to his head.

“Better?” Her voice broke the silence, that smile twitching her lips again. His evident relief obviously amused her. “And what did you do in a past life to end up on door duty on such a hot day?”

Alistair ruffled his hair in an attempt to unstick it from his scalp, a nervous habit he’d picked up over the years, offering an excuse to concentrate on something other than what was happening in front of him. His attempt to fix his unruly hair had been thoroughly unsuccessful as evidenced by the fit of giggles that overcame the young woman.

“What?” His heart fluttered as he reached back up to his head, trying to feel what could have possibly elicited such a reaction.

“You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards!” she spluttered, taking his helmet from him to present the polished metal as a mirror, “see…”

She wasn’t wrong. His hair was sticking up in tufts all over the place, far worse than any morning hair he’d ever had.

“Andraste’s tits!”

The woman let out a whoop of laughter, creasing in half, arms still wrapped around the helmet, her whole body shaking with amusement. He couldn’t help letting out a chuckle in spite of his embarrassment. Her laughter was infectious, and by the time she’d managed to stand again, his cheeks hurt from smiling. 

“I’m pretty sure _you’re_ not allowed to say that,” she managed when she recovered herself, voice hoarse from laughing. Tears streamed down her face, tracking small amounts of eye makeup as evidence of how thoroughly tickled she was. “Or is that some special kind of prayer they teach you at Templar school?” Her wicked smile was back, looking all the more tempting on flushed cheeks. 

“Ser Alistair!” The shout came from the Chantry doors.

“Oh shit—I have to get back! That’s one of the Mothers. She hates me. I’m going to be in so much trouble! Again.” Eyes wide, he looked around desperately trying to order his thoughts. _How am I going to explain away this one?_ “I have to go. I need my helmet.”

Her lips formed a thoughtful pout, her eyebrow raised in a playful arch, “No.”

“What?!” His name resounded from the courtyard again.

“I think I’m going to keep hold of this…” She shifted so that the helmet was held behind her back, out of his reach.

“Please, my life is not going to be worth living if I go back without that helmet.” He could hear footsteps on the cobbles heading toward them. He couldn’t be caught like this, hiding in the bushes with a missing helmet. He wasn’t at the monastery any more, where such events were basically a daily occurrence. 

“Looks like you have a choice, Ser Knight,” she teased, “run, or hide.”

He could hear muttered complaints drifting on the breeze towards the gardens in which they were hidden, someone was coming their way. Someone looking for him. _Time to make a decision, Alistair._ He looked at the woman to his side, helmet clasped in her hand just out of his reach, patient smile and curious eyes waiting to see what he would do. _Oh, to the void with it! I’ll end up in trouble either way._

He dropped into a crouch behind the Chantry garden’s sprawling rhododendrons, dragging the startled woman with him. She dropped to her knees with an ‘oof’, just managing to stop herself throwing the helmet to the floor. 

His adversary rounded the corner, under the bushes they could see her feet pacing as she scanned the garden for any sign of him. 

“Alistair!” Mother Perpetua snapped, hoping the bring the young Templar out from his hiding place. She stalked over to the other side of the garden in the hopes of rooting him out amongst the trees. 

“Quickly, while she’s over there,” he whispered to the troublemaker.

“You’d never be able to sneak out without being heard. Might as well wait her out.”

He chuckled in agreement. It was true, this armour was definitely not designed for stealth. Even without the skirts causing a serious safety hazard when trying to move swiftly, the armour itself clanked loudly with any kind of hasty movement. 

“You know, I don’t even know your name…”

She chewed her lip thoughtfully for a moment, “Which do you want? My name? Or my helmet?”

“Now, how am I supposed to make a choice like that?” A bold smile crept across his lips, met gratifyingly with a flood of colour to her cheeks. 

Mother Perpetua had finished her investigation of the northern aspect of the garden, chuntering under her breath about wild Templars and kitchen duty as she made her way back across the courtyard. 

Alistair’s eyes remained trained in the Mother’s direction, despite being invisible through the densely growing bushes. So intent was his observation of the angry priestess that he hadn’t noticed how close his partner-in-crime had drawn to him, not until he felt her breath tickle his neck, sending goosebumps rippling across his skin. 

“A trade,” His brows knotted, wondering what she could mean. “Your helmet in exchange for something.”

He turned to look at her, both were startled to find themselves practically nose to nose. What could she possibly want. The priestess was almost upon them when the redhead spoke, her voice a hoarse whisper, her expression tentative, her eyes reading his as the words came out.

“Kiss me…”

The world melted away. Mother Perpetua could have been carried away by a dragon for all he cared. All he could hear were those words. All he could see was her; alabaster skin flushing pink with a rising blush, anxious eyes searching for a reaction in his face. 

He reached out, cupping her face gently, raising her chin and pressing his lips to hers. He felt her contented sigh tickle his lips as she returned his kiss. He could feel her smile as she awkwardly negotiated his armour to slip her arms around his neck. Another reason to hate the damned armour. And though he’d wrapped his arms tightly around her, he couldn’t help but wish he could feel her in his arms properly, feel the warmth of her held against him. 

“Ahem.” 

They were discovered. Dragged rudely back to reality. At least Mother Perpetua had the decency to remain on the other side of the rhododendrons while she waited for her wayward Templar to emerge. 

Separating was like fighting magnets. Bittersweet kisses pulling each other back, prolonging the moment as best they could, pained longing in their eyes from not knowing when they might see each other again. 

He pressed a final kiss to her lips, doing his best to commit her to memory. 

“AHEM.” 

“Ysabelle… my name’s Ysabelle,” she called after him as he left. 

He could feel her watching him go as he dragged on his helmet and hurried out into the courtyard. The Mother chastised him all the way through the gardens and the courtyards to the Chantry entrance, but under that helmet she couldn’t see that his mind was somewhere else entirely. It had remained in the gardens, lost in thoughts of a redhead with a wicked smile and an infectious laugh. 

“Ysabelle,” he smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> If you enjoyed it, then please feel free to take a look at my long fic, The Time For Vigilance Is Over, which features Ysabelle and Alistair in their battle against the Blight. 
> 
> The long fic is part of the normal Dragon Age universe. Although I must say I'm half tempted to write some more on this AU.
> 
> Thanks again!


End file.
